by Kata Čuić
Fourth and Inches
Book 4 in the Moving the Chains Series
Copyright ©2017 by Kata Čuić
All Rights Reserved.
This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written permission by the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. And yes, that includes the internet and social media. Especially those. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Art in any form is created from the blood, sweat, and tears of the artist. In this case, the writer. Please do not engage in piracy or plagiarism. Purchase from valid vendors. Create your own art!
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and goings on are the product of the author’s ridiculous imagination and/or life experiences, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead or otherwise, is coincidental. Kind of. Mostly.
Copy edited by Lisa Codianne
Cover artwork ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Formatted by Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Note from the Author
About the Author
Fourth and Inches Playlist
Evie’s voice floats down the hallway to my ears. The lilting, familiar melody begs me to let go of the restlessness that’s plagued me for so many nights.
Sighing, I abandon my spot on the couch and succumb to her Siren’s call.
I stop at the doorway of our room.
From the king-size bed, her incomparable blue eyes pull me closer.
Her hair’s a rumpled mess, curls cascading down her bare shoulders, long enough now to cover her perfect breasts from my hungry gaze. The white sheets pool at her waist, hiding what I desperately want to taste.
My mouth waters; my tongue grows heavy. Deep thirst threatens to crack my control.
A soft smile on her lips promises my wildest dreams as she beckons me with a single, slender finger. “Come to bed.”
How can I resist that?
I only give her my back long enough to shut off the lamp on the nightstand. When I turn around, she’s gone.
“Evie?”
No answer.
I glance at the bed, excitement building in my muscles. The comforter is pulled up to the pillows, but the unmistakable form of a body beneath can’t be hidden by the darkness.
She wants to play tonight.
I love playful Evie.
Rather than give in to my animalistic urge to throw back the blankets and expose her, I climb on top of her petite body, grinding my erection against the juncture of her thighs until a soft gasp of pleasure gives her away.
Homing in on the exact location of the sound, I press my lips to the blanket and feel the damp heat of her breath through the layers of fabric.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Her answering giggles thrum through my body which tenses with anticipation of everything to come.
The tips of her fingers appear at the edge of the blanket, then she slowly pulls down the veil.
“Julie?”
Sharp green eyes stare back at me in disappointment. “Still lying to yourself?”
I jerk back in confusion, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Tearing the comforter and sheets off the bed in one pull, I search for the source of my joy that seemed so real.
The bed is empty.
Panic overwhelming reason, I spin in circles, searching the shadows in every corner of the room.
My skin dampens with sweat. A rough, scratchy sensation assaults my lips.
I open my eyes.
“Patch, no.” I push my annoying Calico off my chest and sit upright, scrubbing my hands over my face.
Ugh, cat saliva.
She jumps back onto my lap, then tilts her head at me.
“I know, I know,” I sigh. “I’m losing my damn mind.”
Her plaintive meow sounds as heavy as my chest feels.
“Yeah. You’re right. We’ll get through it. We just need more time.”
I wish I knew the specific number of days, weeks, months to get over it. Over her. I’ve been in Sacramento for three months. Been separated from Evie for eight. How much longer until my life goes back to normal?
I glance through the open door to the dark master bedroom. No movement catches my eye. No one’s there. Skeletons are the only things hiding in my closet.
I flop back down on the couch. The cushiest leather money can buy isn’t enough to slow my racing heart, quench the burning in my chest, or ease the pain that spreads through my entire body.
Fumbling blindly for the remote on the coffee table, I ignore the glass of tequila that falls to the carpet. The big-screen television flickers to life with the push of a button, and with another press of my thumb, a familiar recording plays before my eyes.
“Mike Mitchell, you ran for a hundred and fifty-three yards tonight. If that’s not an amazing debut, I don’t know what is.” The blond reporter with a bright smile and wandering eyes places her hand on Mike’s thick arm. “What else do you have in store for Wolves fans this season?”
Mike responds with some scripted crap, but his patronizing lines aren’t what keeps me coming back night after night. My eyes are drawn to the slight figure behind him on the sidelines.
I’ve watched these forty-two precious seconds of post-game more than any film in my life. I have no better idea how to play this off now than I did during the previous two hundred and sixteen viewings.
The bottom line never changes: She was at his debut game, not mine.
What was supposed to be our big moment—gone. Ripped away by bad decisions, ill timing, and years of pent-up trauma.
I’m sure Alex’s whole family traveled to Orlando for his first appearance in the NFL. Mike had Evie on the sidelines. And though I don’t see them on screen, I know his mother and sisters were there, too.
I only had Mom. The rest of my family wasn’t here.
As the television continues to replay the stolen moment, unmistakable pride blooms on Evie’s face. Her eyes laugh, dance, and sing in a way I haven’t seen in person for too long.
She seems so healthy, so happy.
Is it all another mask? More lies?
Without warning, her expression crumbles. Sadness replaces joy, her eyes shining with unshed tears even in the background.
I rewind the clip, searching for the source of her misery.
No one speaks to her. The few players milling around seem to ignore her exist
ence. Her lips never move. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone around her.
I’ve replayed the scene a million times, but I can never find the switch that trips her mood.
The unexplainable trigger has become my obsession.
Every night, I puzzle the possibilities in my head. The selfish part of me hopes my memory clouds her brain, the same way she refuses to vacate mine. If I have to suffer, then she should, too.
I can’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep.
Exhaustion shrouds my bones like a well-worn security blanket. With Patch curled up on my chest, my eyes grow heavy again. Sleep beckons with greedy fingers, so I turn off the television and welcome the darkness.
I’ve gotta take what I can get, when I can get it.
More dreams will wake me before dawn breaks the spell. I’ve been around the block enough times to know how this plays out.
More time, I tell myself. I just need more time.
“Aww, come on, ref! Where’s the face mask call?”
The guys beside me stare at my outburst. Or, well…me. They’re staring at me.
I shake off the discomfort their wide gazes bring, reminding myself they have no idea who I am. I’m not wearing my favorite jersey, no wedding band, and I hardly look like the woman they might have recognized once upon a time.
I’m not here to be social, anyway. I’m here to watch some football.
The replay clearly shows Orlando’s defensive end trying to wrest the helmet from the quarterback’s head. Any more torque and Sacramento’s star player might have had his neck broken by number ninety-seven.
It’s a good thing I’m not there. I might give security the slip and wait for that dude after the game. With brass knuckles.
On the very next snap, the o-line folds and ninety-seven charges again.
This time, the quarterback gives him the clothesline.
“Bullshit,” I yell when they flag number ten for a personal foul.
The guy to my left laughs at my commentary. “You one of those Falls Fanatics?”
On my right, Alyssa pries my knife from my fingers. “Violence isn’t the answer, hon.”
Ignoring my friend because I’ll never admit she’s right, I respond to the random guy who somehow thinks I’d rather have a conversation with him than watch the game. “Am I wearing a number ten jersey?”
“No.” His beady eyes travel down my torso, then back up. “You’re certainly not.”
I have no doubt from the husky tone of his voice and the way his gaze lingers a little too long on my breasts he’s imagining me wearing nothing.
Ha. Joke’s on him. He’d likely be repulsed by what’s underneath my shirt and bra.
“I happen to love football.” I redirect his attention to my face with my sharp statement. “Don’t try to tell me ninety-seven didn’t have that coming. He’s been out for blood the entire game, with barely even a slap on the wrist from the officials. I can name at least ten different penalties he hasn’t been called on in the first three quarters.”
The guy nods, seemingly impressed. “You really know your shit, huh?”
“Sweetheart, I know things about football that would make your eyeballs bleed.”
Instead of shutting him up, my admission only seems to excite him further. “Yeah? And how’s that, gorgeous? Jersey chasing is hard work, is that the way of it?”
“All right, that’s enough.” Alyssa physically pulls me up, switching seats with me so I’m sandwiched between her and Jeremy. “Don’t you give me that look, Eva. We’re not bailing you out if you get into another fight. You should just be happy we still let you watch games in public.”
“The last guy didn’t press charges, so you didn’t actually have to bail me out. And, I didn’t ask for fucking babysitters,” I mumble.
Jeremy wraps his arm around my shoulders, giving me a little shake. “Aww, don’t be that way. You know we only worry because we love you.”
“Or Mike’s paying you off.”
Alyssa scoffs. “You act like having so many people who care about you is such a hardship. Besides, maybe it’s Alex paying us off.”
I shoot her a scathing glare, but she simply sips her Long Island Iced Tea and smirks. It’s far more likely Alex has paid off his teammates to fuck with Rob every chance they get during this first matchup between their teams. I’m not even in attendance, but I can practically feel the tension oozing from the TV.
“We got lucky Alex and Rob are playing each other today.” Jeremy’s eyes are glued to the screen above us, completely oblivious to my feelings on the matter. “I hate having to choose who we watch on any given Sunday.”
“And Mike’s game isn’t until later, which makes it even easier,” Alyssa adds. “How mad is he that you didn’t take the train up to Albany?”
I fiddle with my necklace for luck, rubbing the cool metal between my fingers until Rob’s pass lands safely in the hands of his mediocre wide receiver before answering. “Kick off isn’t until eight. I have work in the morning. He can’t be mad.”
That’s a much better explanation than admitting every conversation we have breaks down into a fight. He’s such a hypocrite, constantly needling me to let go of the past when he isn’t taking his own advice. He still hasn’t been on a date, to my knowledge.
“I would’ve given you tomorrow off if you wanted to go.” Alyssa rolls her eyes.
“Yeah. Remember how well that turned out the first game of the season?”
“How was I supposed to know my boss would show up that morning, unannounced?”
Jeremy laughs. “You don’t have a boss, babe. You have an aunt, who wants you to take over her art gallery, so she can retire and travel the world. I don’t know why you two are still freaking out about that. So you didn’t have a secretary sitting at the desk out front that morning. Who cares? It’s an art studio. It’s not like you run a law firm.”
Alyssa and I face him in unison.
He coughs, his cheeks turning red from our twin death glares. “My bad. It was a big deal. No more Mondays off for Evie.”
That old argument settled, Alyssa turns to me with a softer expression. “Speaking of time off, are you ready to fess up to the real reason you’re not at that game?” She gestures to the TV where Rob is walking off the field, his head hung like he’s already given up. “Bullshit excuses of growing apart aside,” she lowers her voice. “It’s obvious you still love him.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“Then why are you in New York instead of California?”
A sigh sneaks out of my chest, even as I tell myself to stay cool. It’s getting harder and harder to maintain an air of indifference. After all these months apart from Rob, shouldn’t it be getting easier? “Because I need to be here.”
“You know I’m going to eventually get it out of you.” She gives me a side-eye. “Since there’s obviously more to that story, are you sure you’re okay with our plans?”
“For the millionth time, yes.” At least my audible sigh is justified this time. “It’s your wedding; you can do whatever you want, and that includes inviting whomever you want.”
“Thank God,” Jeremy breathes. “In that case, I need a favor.”
Oh, this already smells like trouble. That suspicion is confirmed when he latches onto my arm and leans in like he’s about to deliver highly classified intelligence.
“Rob isn’t returning my calls. I get he’s busy during the season, but I’ve left him at least ten voicemails. I need to know if he can swing being a groomsman. If he doesn’t have time during the off-season, then that’s cool. I just need a yes or a no.”
Jeremy’s admission concerns me. It’s not like Rob to blow off one of his oldest friends. As busy as he was during college football seasons, he still made time for the people who were important to him. Jeremy was always on that short list. “Okay. What does that have to do with me?”
Jeremy huffs out a breath, my question clearly frustrating him. �
�Call him and get an answer for me.”
I barely have my mouth open to issue an excuse before Alyssa bumps into me from the other side. “We already asked Mike and Alex to try and get in touch with him. They both refused.”
Jeremy straightens in his seat, his expression darkening. “If you don’t want to tell anyone why you and Rob broke up, that’s fine. It happened months ago and it’s none of our business. But, I’m getting really pissed at the constant run around about what went down between three of my best friends. Even though we went to separate colleges, they never shut me out like this. I don’t know if having all three of them in the wedding party will be a disaster because no one will tell me what’s going on. Alex and Mike promised to be there, but I don’t know if Rob will even show up.”
Memories of the last time Rob, Mike, and Alex were in the same room skitter through my mind. It’s no wonder a confession isn’t forthcoming from anyone. How is it possible to explain a rift no one saw coming?
Though they would undoubtedly argue with me, I can’t help but feel like I’m responsible for it all.
Then again, we’d have to be on speaking terms to disagree. “I emailed Rob once at the beginning of the season. He never responded. I don’t think I’ll have any better luck than you. Sorry, Jeremy.”
“Figures,” he grumbles before bringing his beer to his lips to guzzle from the glass.
We resume watching the game in silence as Orlando takes the field for another offensive drive. Alex has been on fire with every play, a stark contrast to Rob’s floundering performance.
As cheers and heckles float on the thick air around me, envy creeps up my spine.
That old saying, it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?
What a load of crap.
It’s been eight long months since I broke things off with Rob, but I still feel the loss as tangibly as a severed limb. Living on opposite sides of the country and having no more sightings of him across campus like I used to at State has been a much more difficult adjustment than I’d predicted.
I’m probably not making things easier on myself by following his debut season in the NFL like a total stalker. I just wish there was some switch in my brain I could flip to shut off the ghostly hold he still has over me. But then again, I never wanted to completely let him go. I only wanted to do what was best for him. Keeping tabs on him from a distance is a safe way to make sure he’s doing well.
